Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [85]
Far worse than that, there were at least five people dead, and another twenty or more injured, some badly. They might yet die. This time there had been no warning, and there had obviously been at least three times as much dynamite as in Myrdle Street. They had no idea who had done it.
Pitt looked at Narraway, exhausted and filthy. No doubt his body ached just as much, his skin stung, his head felt pummeled and his lungs were tight and sore every time he took a breath. Most of all he would feel a sick overwhelming knowledge of failure. People would expect him to have prevented this. They hadn’t even captured anyone to show for it. They had not a clue or a thread to follow. Nowhere to start, nothing to say it would not happen again, and again, as often as the anarchists had a mind to do it.
Narraway looked back at him. Both of them wanted to say something, but the truth did not need words, and lies of comfort were pointless and stupid, a shattering of what little there was left.
Narraway drank some more water and handed the mug back to Pitt, who finished the last of it.
“Go home,” Narraway said, clearing his throat. “There’s nothing anyone can do here tonight.”
Pitt could think of nothing to do even tomorrow, but he ached to be back in Keppel Street and the safety of it. He was suddenly overwhelmingly sorry for Narraway that he had no such place to go, no one who loved him with unquestioning certainty. He did not want Narraway to know that he had seen it. “Thank you,” he accepted quietly. “Good night.”
He had not realized it was so late. It was nearly midnight when he opened the front door. By the time he had closed it, Charlotte, still dressed, was in the passage, the light in the parlor behind her.
“I’m all right!” he said too loudly, seeing the horror in her face. “It’s only dirt! It’ll all wash off.”
“Thomas! What…” she gasped, her eyes wide, her cheeks almost bloodless. “What happened?”
“Another explosion,” he answered. He wanted to take her in his arms now, immediately, but he was filthy. He would not only stain her clothes but pass on the stench of the fire.
She gave the matter no such thought. She flung her arms around him and held him fiercely, and kissed him. Then she buried her head in his shoulder and clung to him as if he might escape her were she to let go her grip.
He found himself smiling, touching her more gently because he was safe, and she was in his arms. Her hair had fallen out of its pins. He pulled out the remaining few and dropped them on the floor. Her hair fell down over her shoulders and he ran his fingers through it, feeling the softness of it. It was cool, like loose silk, so slippery and smooth it could almost have been liquid. And it smelled sweet, as if all the burning and the rubble and the blood had been in his imagination.
He was sorry for Narraway, and, if he had thought about it, he would even have been sorry for Voisey.
In the morning he awoke with a jolt, the silence of his bedroom beating in his ears. Memory returned with its violence and pain. Charlotte was already up. Daylight shone bright behind the curtains, and a gold strip crossed the floor where they were not quite closed. He could hear horses’ hooves and wheels in the street.
He got up quickly. Charlotte had laid out clean clothes for him on the chair. The old clothes from last night were in the scullery, keeping the smell out of the bedroom.
He shaved and dressed, and was downstairs within a quarter of an hour. His muscles ached from his exertions the previous night and he had more bruises and scratches than he could count, but he felt rested. He had slept without the nightmares he had expected, and he was hungry.
The kitchen clock said nine, and there were no newspapers on the table. Charlotte turned from the sink where she was drying dishes, and smiled at him.
Gracie came in from the pantry with a bowl of eggs and bade him good morning. He allowed them to look after him before he asked what the